To All A Good Night
by Kyra4
Summary: Merry Christmas to all & to all a Good Night! 5 years out of Hogwarts, Hermione's Christmas is shaping up to be anything but merry. In fact, things are looking downright traumatic this year... M for language & very adult themes. Detailed warnings inside
1. Chapter 1

New-Fic Disclaimer: Only the plot, people, only the plot. And even that wouldn't exist without JK.

A/N: Merry Christmas Alex!!! And Happy Holidays to everyone else who might be chancing to read this. Okay, here's the deal; this fic is a present to my good friend Alex, who has spent the week before Christmas slogging through university finals – yurgh – and for whom I would do almost – _almost_ – anything at all! Such as, for example, betray the Draco and Hermione ship, my OTP. Last year for Christmas she asked for a SSHG story from me, and she got it! And this year she wanted something even a tad bit naughtier – a Trio threesome fic; so here it is! _This is important, so please make a note of it_ – this fic is neither Harry / Hermione, nor Ron / Hermione; it is all three of them. Together. At the same time. Okay? Okay. Picture it in your mind. If it's a picture that agrees with you, then by all means read on and don't forget to review!! If it is not, then this is your cue to hit that back button and go find something a little more straight-laced to read. Other warnings, besides sexual content (which won't come into play til later, BTW), are for mature themes, language, and some violence. Oh, and eggnog angst. Yes indeed. And Lavender-bashing, and villainous-Draco (but at least he's in there; I just couldn't omit my dracokins completely! I _had_ to write him in, even if it _is_ as a complete, evil bastard.) Anyway, here is what Alex asked for, in her Christmas present:

REQUEST:

Pairing: EITHER Fred/Hermione/George OR Harry/Hermione/Ron

Rating: PG-13 or up (you can take it as far as you want since you've been bent on wild monkey sex lately)

FOUR THINGS I want in the story:

_1. a romantic letter._

_2. Hermione in one of those sexy Santa outfits._

_3. a discussion about Santa Claus and how he fits into the wizarding world._

_4. a peppermint mocha with sprinkles._

TWO THINGS I don't want:

_1. Voldemort -- I don't even want to see the word._

_2. Too much man-on-man action. Blech._

So without further ado, please enjoy this little (probably 3-4 chapters) fic! ;-)

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TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT

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"It just seems silly, that's all," she said, huffing in frustration. "A costume party for _Christmas?_ Honestly, Ron, where's the sense in that? Costumes are meant for Halloween. Well actually, they're _meant_ for children, but if adults are going to wear them, then Halloween is certainly the only acceptable-"

"Well, I don't mind it," Ron cut in, mulishly. "It's just different. We could use some variety around here. I think it's a _good_ idea."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Frankly, I think it sounds like a _Lavender Brown_ idea," she bit out.

She could feel Ron's anger washing over her like a wave, then- if she'd closed her eyes in that instant she'd have actually been able to _see_ it, the same fiery color as his shock of Weasley hair. It was a result, this ability, of the final, desperate spell the three of them- she and Ron and Harry- had employed as a means of destroying the Dark Lord's last Horcrux and winning the war some five years ago. Performed as a threesome, the spell had, in some powerful, primordial, and permanent way, fused their consciousnesses together. It had also knocked them out for three solid weeks, but when they had come to, within moments of each other, one of the first things they'd noticed was their new, collective… _gift_. It wasn't telepathy per se- they couldn't actually read one another's minds, or anything quite as concrete as that- it was more of a… a really strong brand of intuition. And when one of them was feeling an unusually powerful emotion, the other two could pick up on it as bright and clear as day.

Ron's anger in that moment was as bright and clear as a summer day in the tropics… and tinged, Hermione thought, with just the barest hint of defensiveness as well. It was the defensiveness that set her teeth on edge. Why would Ron be broadcasting _that_ unless there was actually something to her Lavender Brown remark? She tried to rein in her sudden surge of jealousy; he was angry and distracted, so she didn't think he'd pick up on it, but she didn't want to take any chances.

Hate is a strong word. Hermione would never admit to actually _hating_ a fellow Gryffindor… but she did not like Ron's girlfriend; not by a long shot. Lavender and Ron had been an off-and-on item ever since their inaugural snog in 6th year at Hogwarts; and it was always, without fail, Lavender who did the breaking off _and_ the turning on, waltzing in and out of Ron's life on a whim, little noticing all the trauma and tumult she put him through every time she stormed out the door, drama queen that she was. Or perhaps, Hermione reflected bitterly, she _did_ notice- simply didn't care. Hermione, so used to seeking out only the good in the people around her, simply could not bring herself to do this for Lavender; classifying the flighty girl in with the likes of, say, Dolores Umbridge, or Draco Malfoy, or Severus Snape.

Did Lavender really deserve to be lumped in with petty tyrants, scuzzy Death Eaters, and filthy traitors? Maybe not. But if she was above them, it wasn't by much. Hermione could hardly help noticing that her recently renewed interest in Ron coincided almost perfectly with Arthur Weasley's long-awaited ascendance to the position of Minister of Magic, and Ron's own promotion within the Ministry.

Gold-digging cow.

It wasn't even as if Ron actually _loved_ her; not in the true sense of the word. At least, Hermione didn't think so. Hermione didn't _want_ to think so. From where she sat, a (slightly) biased onlooker, it seemed more of an… an addiction than anything else. He certainly didn't broadcast anything like real love when Lavender was around, although the last time the little tart had slept over in Ron's room Hermione had abruptly been slammed with such a powerful wave of desire – of pure and forceful _lust_ – that it had sent her fairly running into her own bedroom, to slam the door behind herself, fall across her coverlet, and frantically seek release from her own fingers. It had been the first, last, and only orgasm she'd ever brought herself to (Hermione Granger simply did not _do_ such things) and she had wept in the aftermath; tears of shame and guilty pleasure. So there was little denying that Ron was attracted to Lavender. But this attraction was _not_ love. Not beautiful; not wholesome. Nothing that love should be. And yet, it tore him apart every time she left him anew.

Hermione could kill her for that.

Ron and Lavender weren't technically together at this particular point in time, but not for lack of trying on Lavender's part. In fact, she was coming on stronger than she ever had before, trying to get Ron not only to commit to her again, but to move out of the three-bedroom flat he shared with Harry and Hermione, and in with her.

To isolate him, in other words, from the two people most likely to speak out against her- the very same two people who knew him best in all the world, and truly had his best interests at heart.

So far, this time, he'd resisted her- but her only response had been to come on stronger and stronger. And now he was weakening; that's what Hermione had sensed from his defensiveness of a moment ago; that's what made her so angry now. Angry at Lavender, angry at Ron, angry at herself for failing to protect him.

The two of them glared at each other for a long, silent moment, over Hermione's parchment-strewn desk. They'd been spending a lot of their time glaring at one another lately, ever since Lavender had started sniffing around again. God, Hermione loved Ron to death, but the urge to just grab him by the shoulders and _shake_ him had been increasingly strong lately, and never more so than right this minute. He was beyond infuriating. And she just didn't know what to say to him, how to make him see sense. Every time she tried to talk to him it only seemed to make matters worse; she couldn't seem to find the right words. She could _never_ seem to find the right words with Ron. She never _had_ had that ability, not even when they were children.

There was so much silence between them. So much friendship, so much love, so much history… but so much silence.

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair; though it was as massively curly as ever, she'd recently cut it short; chin-length. Harry had said it was becoming on her. Ron had said nothing.

"Listen," she said wearily, "Ron, let's not do this, all right? It's been a long week; we're both tired. I was just-"

"You two ready to punch out and grab a bite on the way home?"

Hermione trailed off mid-sentence and looked past Ron, to see Harry leaning in the doorway of her small, somewhat dingy office. His stance and tone were casual, but his dark green eyes were serious; concerned. Hermione was sure that he'd been summoned by Ron's anger – and her own.

She tried for a smile. "Harry – yeah. I think that's a great idea; I'm famished." She looked anxiously back at Ron. Would he let this drop? One could never tell with him. He was certainly capable, if the mood struck him, of taking a relatively small thing like her comment about the costume party and turning it into a grudge that could last for days.

"What do you say, Ron? We can do Greek." It was a blatant attempt at conciliation; Ron loved Greek food. He was nearly as addicted to gyros as he was to Lavender Brown.

He looked at her hard for a moment, then gave a noncommittal grunt and turned on his heel, muttering something about grabbing his jacket and meeting them outside. Once he was past Harry and out in the corridor, Hermione slumped, planting her elbows on her desk and dropping her head forward into her hands. It had been a long day, and she suspected that it was only Harry's impeccable timing that had averted disaster with Ron.

And speaking of Harry – he was on the move now, coming around her desk without saying a word, stopping directly behind her. Seconds later, his warm, strong hands settled on her shoulders and began to gently knead, massaging her.

"My God, you're tense," he observed as she let go with a murmured _uhmmm_ of surprised pleasure. "Hermione, what's going on?"

"Ron," she said simply. "He's driving me up the – _ah, that's good_ – straight up the wall. Do you know, I think he's – _mmmh, yes_ – I think he's getting ready to go back to her, Harry? Again! Why – _why_ doesn't he learn? I just – God, I just want _slap_ some sense into him, you know?"

She almost added, in her frustration, _why do you men forever insist upon thinking only with what's between your legs?!? _But she couldn't quite bring herself to voice this thought out loud. Her modesty would not allow even indirect references to such a thing with her male friends – even Harry, with whom she could discuss… well, _almost_ anything. Besides, it was an unfair generalization; Harry didn't exhibit any such moronic behavior. The great hero of the wizarding world – if he'd wanted to, he could have led a life of utter decadence, playing off his fame and bedding a different girl practically every night. Merlin knew he had his fans; Hermione could hardly fail to notice that, sharing a flat with him and all. The scented, lipstick-kissed letters arrived in droves. But instead, he worked long and often irregular hours in a dangerous and largely thankless profession. He was an Auror for the Ministry, and Hermione hated it. There were still plenty of former Death Eaters, and plenty more of their disgruntled supporters, on the loose, wreaking nine kinds of havoc on any given day. It was a busy – and a perilous – time to be an Auror.

It meant that there was a cold, gnawing little ball of fear that sat deep in Hermione's stomach at all times that Harry was physically out of her sight. She lived in absolute dread of the day that he simply did not come home from work; that he ended up in St. Mungo's… or worse.

Merlin… what would she do without him? It didn't even bear thinking about.

But the possibility seemed soothingly distant right now, with Harry's presence so real and immediate in her little office; with his warm, strong hands slowly teasing the knots out of her shoulders and neck.

"Ohhhhh," she exhaled, relaxing at last – it felt like the first time all week – and asked herself, yet again, why it was that she didn't just go for broke and ask Harry out. A part of her wanted to _so much_ – had for a long, long time – but it was complicated. She had finally, recently, stopped denying to herself that she was attracted to him… or, for that matter, that she was attracted to Ron as well. There was so much more to the equation, though, than simple attraction. For one thing, the most important thing, she had no idea whether that attraction was mutual. Well, in Harry's case, at least. In Ron's case, she was as about as certain as could be that it was not – Lavender Brown, right? How much more obvious could it be? True, sometimes she caught him – caught both of them – studying her when they thought she wasn't looking, but that was precious little evidence to justify going out on such a slender and treacherous limb. Especially when there was so very much at stake. Should her confession be met only by stares of horror, and perhaps in Harry's case, pity, it could spell disaster for her two oldest, and most precious, friendships. Merlin, it could potentially _end_ them.

The thought of it made her faintly, physically, ill; a minor wave of nausea surged through her. She wasn't going to be partaking of the gyros tonight, she decided; maybe just a Greek salad instead.

But in any event, that was what it boiled down to; that was the reason she kept her thoughts on the subject of dating either of her best friends steadfastly to herself. Admitting them would be a gamble, as she had no idea how they would be received… and Hermione Granger did not gamble on unknown equations.

She sighed, shrugged away from Harry, and stood. "Well, come on," she said resignedly, "we'd better get outside. Lover boy will be waiting for us."

"Hermione, wait." Harry reached out and caught her arm, stilling her right in the middle of pulling on her coat. His green eyes, when they met hers, still had that quiet gravity about them. Harry hadn't smiled very much since the war. It had taken a toll on all of them… but none more so than Harry himself. She had tried to get him to open up about it on numerous occasions, positive that talking through it would do him a world of good, but Harry did not talk about the war. Ever. It was as simple as that.

There was something on his mind _now_, though; that much was clear.

"Harry?" she prompted now, because he had trailed off momentarily into silence. She watched his eyes, which had grown thoughtful and distant, focus on her once again.

"Right," he said, "Listen. About Ron. You know that I feel the same way that you do about Lavender. But you need to cut him some slack right now. He's… he's working through something, and I think he's almost there. So just give him a little more time, all right? I can practically guarantee you'll be happy you did."

As she stood there, mouth slightly agape, processing this, he caught the sleeve of her now-forgotten coat and helped her to push her arm fully through. Her body complied automatically as her mind, now otherwise occupied, raced.

_What did Harry know about Ron that she didn't?_

Mentally, she reviewed the past days, weeks, months, searching for some explanation for Harry's cryptic words. What could Ron possibly be working through that she wouldn't know about? But she came up empty handed. There was absolutely nothing that jumped out to grab her. She became vaguely aware that Harry was propelling her now, gently, through the door. Sill functioning on auto-pilot, she fumbled out her keys and locked her office behind them. "Harry, what-" she began as they started down the hall, but he cut her off.

"Hermione, do you trust me?"

"With my life," she answered immediately, and with not a trace of humor or brevity to her words. Two people who have been through war – to hell and back – together do not ask, or answer, such questions lightly.

"Then let him be. Let him work this out. He needs this. Okay?"

She sighed. "Okay," she said reluctantly. She still didn't like being left out of the loop – not one little bit. She reached out with her mind to see if Harry was broadcasting at all, but somewhat to her disappointment, he wasn't putting out any emotion strong enough to read.

That all changed a moment later, though, as they turned a corner and came abruptly upon Draco Malfoy, locking up his own office for the night. The surge of anger, hatred and disgust that came off of him then nearly knocked her right off her feet. She grabbed his arm to steady herself – to steady both of them. He had gone rigid, his own hands clenched into fists at his sides. She tried to project a sense of calm, but she didn't get the impression that it was penetrating the wall of Harry's anger at all.

As for Malfoy, he merely quirked an eyebrow and smirked. "Evening, Potter," he drawled lazily. "Granger." Then he did something extraordinarily troubling. He positively raked her from head to toe with that cold, slate-grey gaze of his, giving her a once-over that was anything but subtle, and undeniably lewd. "You're looking… well."

Heat suffused her face as Harry's muscles bunched beneath her hand. He was ready to hurl himself at Malfoy – God, that slimeball knew exactly what buttons to push for _both_ of them. Well, she supposed they'd spent enough time as enemies for him to have had ample opportunity to perfect his technique.

"I wish I could say the same for you, Malfoy," she spat out, tightening her grip on Harry still further – a brawl in the corridor wouldn't do _any_ of them the least bit of good- "but I've been meaning to ask you for a long time, actually – is the albino look something you cultivate purposely? Because frankly, it doesn't do a whole lot for you. _Harry, let's GO_," she added in an undertone, giving him a sharp little yank to get him moving. He went with her, albeit unwillingly. It was so unfair – _so unfair!_ – that Death Eater spawn like Malfoy should still have connections and pull in the Ministry – he belonged in Azkaban, not a coveted private Ministry office. That was the reason that the mere sight of him around the building could instantly anger Harry past words. But now, this new tactic of deliberate provocation – she didn't know how long she could control her oldest friend. She didn't think, should push come to shove, that Malfoy's influence was greater than Harry's… but the fact was that it was at least possible; there was still a great deal of injustice – or, one might say, _bought_ justice – within the organization.

She could feel the cold fire of Malfoy's eyes burning a hole in her back all the way down the corridor; could practically _see_ the hateful smirk which she knew must be twisting his pale, pointed face.

Harry was actually shaking by the time they reached the street; his whole body taut and trembling, jaw clenched so tight she almost expected to hear his teeth start cracking under the pressure. It took Ron only the briefest of glances to go nearly as tightly strung, barking out a single, curt question; "Malfoy?"

Hermione had only time to think despairingly, _oh no, now I'll have to deal with both of them_, before Harry wrenched his arm away from her and spun back the way they had come, clearly considering going back in. His green eyes were dark and hard with rage; she actually could barely credit the extent of the impact Malfoy's behavior had had on him. He raked a hand brusquely through his dark hair, breath exploding from him in small, rapid white puffs in the cold winter air.

"What did he do?" Ron's voice was low; dangerous now, too.

Harry finally wrenched his eyes away from the Ministry's unassuming façade to face his friend. His voice was constricted; he could barely speak. "Hermione… he looked… the way he _looked_ at her, Ron – he practically raped her with his eyes!"

"Right then," Ron said, never missing a beat – his long legs had carried him a good ten feet back toward the entrance before Hermione managed to catch him up, grabbing at _his_ arm now, pulling him, hard, the other way.

"Ron, will you just stop it," she snapped, still frustrated with him from earlier. "He didn't _do_ anything – he was just trying to piss Harry off, and he would _love_ to know how completely he's succeeded! Now, instead of _giving_ him that satisfaction, can we please just let this go, and get some dinner!? Both of you – please?"

Ron gave her such a glare that she dropped his arm almost as if it had burned her… apparently he hadn't forgotten their little tiff in her office either… but he turned his back on the Ministry without another word.

The Greek food was good, but dinner that night was a silent, tense affair.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, aren't you going to open your Christmas present?"

"Ginny-" Hermione rolled her eyes at the younger, copper-haired woman - "Christmas isn't for days. I appreciate you bringing it over early, but I'd prefer to leave it under the tree. It looks so pretty there, anyway."

"Oh for God's sake, Hermione," Ginny huffed over her steaming mug – she was drinking a '_Hermione Granger Holiday Specialty_' – a homemade peppermint mocha, complete with whipped cream and sprinkles on top – "I brought it early for a reason. I know it goes against every law-abiding instinct you have to open a wrapped gift before precisely eight o'clock on Christmas morning, but will you just live a little, for _once?_ This is something that you need. _Now_."

Hermione regarded her closest female friend with a mix of intrigue and annoyance. How could her interest fail to be piqued by such a statement as _that? _"Well, now you've got my curiosity up," she groused, and went to the tree to retrieve the gift Ginny had deposited there upon her arrival.

"Harry and Ron and I promised we'd open gifts together," she said, sitting back down at the table, in a last, half-hearted effort to resist.

"Trust me," Ginny replied, "you don't want that."

Hermione nearly dropped the brightly wrapped package. "Ginevra Thomas – (for indeed, Ginny and Dean had been married nearly six months now) – what have you _done?_"

"Just _open_ it."

It slid out of the tissue paper and into her hands, as cool and soft and malleable as water… so why was it that it instantly made her face feel as if it were on fire?

Oh right, because it was supposedly something that she was to wear… and yet unless she were very much mistaken, the entire so-called outfit consisted of about a single square foot of satiny, red material. Trimmed in white fur.

"Ginny, what… in God's name… _is_ this?!?"

Ginny grinned impishly and leaned in close. "This, Hermione, is your costume for that travesty of a Christmas party tomorrow night."

Hermione thrust the outfit – the costume – the _lingerie_ – that's all it was, really – back into its box, cheeks still burning. "I wouldn't wear that out of the house if you held a wand to my head," she exclaimed, "and anyway, I've told you a dozen times, I'm not going!"

Now Ginny's face took on a grim expression; how like her brother Ron she was, with the lightning-fast changes of mood. "Now you listen here, Hermione Granger," she positively hissed, "I am not going to have Lavender bloody Brown for a sister-in-law, do you understand me? She's worse than Fleur! I don't know how you haven't realized this before, but I'm tired of waiting around for you to muddle through it… and you the brightest witch of our generation, or so I keep hearing. You leave me little choice but to come right out with it. Ron is dead in love with you."

Ignoring the shell-shocked look on Hermione's face, the redhead continued, "trust me, I know my brother. It's obvious beyond belief. I know it, Harry knows it – (Hermione's mind raced, with dawning comprehension, back to Harry's words in her office a few days before; _he's working through something, and I think he's almost there. So just give him a little more time, all right? I can practically guarantee you'll be happy you did_) – in a way, I think even Ron knows it. His heart does, I mean; it's just his brain that needs to catch up. And since you and I both know where men's brains really are, you _are_ going to that ridiculous party, and you _are_ wearing this costume. I think it's just the nudge he'll need. And don't even bother denying that you feel the same way about him; what a waste of breath. I happen to know you almost as well as I know Ron. The two of you were meant to be, so damnit, Hermione, it's time to take matters into your own hands and bloody well do something about it!"

Hermione was silent, thunderstruck, for a long, long time. When she finally pulled herself together enough to speak, her voice was barely a whisper.

"Oh, Ginny. Oh, shit."

Those four, barely audible words spoke volumes. Hermione Granger never, _ever_ swore.

"Right," Ginny said, beaming, "I knew you'd come around." She pulled Hermione into a quick, fierce hug. "Now go and try it on."

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Hermione stood in front of her mirror in despair, tugging uselessly at the fur-lined hem of the little red satin dress; a fruitless attempt to add just another inch or two of coverage. She had to admit, when it came right down to it, that she didn't look half bad, and had she been, oh for instance, _married_ and about to show this outfit off to her husband in the privacy of their bedroom, she might actually have been giddy with anticipation. The thought of wearing it in public, though, turned her knees to jelly and made her stomach clench; a cold, sick feeling. The only thing that was strengthening her now was the letter.

Ginny had handed it to her the day before, right as she'd been leaving – just as she had walked out the door. "In case you need any further convincing," she'd said, with that little impish smile again – "and don't bother asking where I found it, because I'll _never_ tell –" and then, before Hermione could say or do a single thing, the redhead had apparated away on the spot.

She'd looked down and instantly recognized Ron's handwriting the way it had been years ago… just by the untidy scrawl she could date this little artifact to no later than their fourth year at Hogwarts. It was addressed to her. She'd taken it into her bedroom to read in privacy, as she'd expected Ron and Harry back any minute from the Christmas shopping excursion they'd been on during Ginny's visit. (Right, Christmas shopping indeed – they'd probably spent ninety-five percent of their time – and their money – in Quality Quidditch Supplies, which was why she'd declined to accompany them. Boys and their toys – would they _never_ outgrow them?)

Sinking into the overstuffed reading chair by her bed, she'd removed a badly crinkled parchment from the envelope and smoothed it out carefully, lovingly, thoughts of Ron at that age – awkward from growth spurts, his too-long hair grazing his collar, insecure and full of adolescent angst – making her smile.

Then she read, and what she read rocked her to the core.

It was dated three days after that fateful Yule Ball.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I know that your upset with me about what happened at the Yule Ball. Your upset with me a lot. I wish I knew how to XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX _(nearly a whole line was crossed out here) _talk to you better, to make you understand me. It's my own fault, it must be, because your so bright, Hermione, theres so much you know and understand so I know that I'm doing something wrong if you can't understand the way I feel about you. I just wanted to tell you that XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX you looked XXXXXXXXXXXXXX so pretty the other night and you can do better than a neeXXX neoXXXX neanderthal like Krum and I wish XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I wish you'd been my date. And I'm not going to wait until the last minute to ask you next time. In fact, I'm asking you right now, before I even know when next time is. Will you go with me to the next ball? Or the next Hogsmeede weekend? Or just to the XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX _(this part was crossed out with particular force, but squinting hard, she'd thought she just might be able to make out the words "astronomy tower") _Never mind, what am I doing? You'll never go anywhere with me. Your a thousand times smarter than I am, and your brave and XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Harry's lucky to have you as a friend and so am I. I will always be grateful for that, even if that's all we ever are. _

_Love Forever,_

_Your Best Mate Ron_

It had brought tears to her eyes, and had hardened, once and for all, her resolve to follow Ginny's advice and lay her own heart on the line at last.

But dear God, she was going out on a limb here. The letter might prove that Ron had had feelings for her back in school, but it didn't prove anything about the present. If Ron had felt that way so long ago, why had he never acted on it? Why couldn't she feel his love for her, the way she felt his other strong emotions from time to time? Either it _wasn't_ a strong emotion, in which case it couldn't possibly be true love, or he was making a deliberate and concerted effort to hide it from her. Where did Lavender fit into this equation? And adding exponentially to her confusion was the fact that she still wasn't certain whether it was truly Ron she wanted to attract at all… or Harry.

The potential for disaster was enormous.

But the alternative was unacceptable. Reading that letter, all of her own emotions, emotions that she'd held carefully in check for years, had come pouring to the surface. She loved Ron – and though Harry complicated things immensely, the fact was that she had time to sort through that; she wasn't in danger of losing Harry. At least, not to anything other than his profession. She was in imminent danger of losing Ron, and damned if she was going to let the old Brown Cow make off with him. Ginny was right; it was time to make her move. It was now or never.

But _Merlin_, she wished this skirt were just a tad bit longer.

When she had tried to alter it magically, however, nothing had happened. And she'd known, instantly, why. Ginny had anticipated it, of course. Damn her freckled little hide straight to –

A knock at her door yanked her from her reverie and sent her heart racing. Oh God, oh no, she couldn't go out like this, she couldn't, she _couldn't _–

"Hermione? Are you ready in there? I know you're not all that keen on this party but if we're even going to put in an appearance we really need to get going."

It was Harry. Ron had left with Lavender an hour ago.

She gulped in a deep breath, took one last agonized look in the mirror, then yanked open her bedroom door with about three times as much force as necessary, before she could change her mind.

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Harry's jaw, predictably, dropped.

They stood there for a long, long time in silence, Harry staring at her as though he'd never quite seen her before in his life; her chest rising and falling with hitching rapidity due to her sudden, extreme case of nerves – which actually did quite a lot to enhance the effect of the low-cut costume.

Finally she pressed her eyes shut for a moment, pulling in a deeper, more steadying breath than the rest. Opening them again, she met his gaze as steadily as she could. "So. Are we going?"

Harry swallowed hard. "I… Hermione… holy… um, yeah. I'll just grab your… um… you'll probably be needing… your cloak."

"Yeah," she half-whispered. "I rather think so. Er, thanks."

They hadn't said a whole lot more to each other than that by the time they arrived. Harry kept glancing at her askance, as though she were some new, intriguing, entirely unpredictable, almost frightening creature. That was sort of how she felt herself. This was certainly about as wildly out-of-character as anything she'd ever done in her life. She fervently wished she could simply keep her winter cloak on all night, but as that would have defeated the entire purpose, and rendered all of her agonizing in front of the mirror entirely moot, she reluctantly shrugged out of it and handed it to the coat check.

She knew it wasn't so, but she immediately felt as if all conversation ceased and all eyes riveted on her. She blushed furiously, and was inordinately grateful when Harry offered her his arm to escort her into the party proper. He was still looking hard at her, his green eyes thoughtful; pensive.

She glanced around the crowded room for Ron, but there was no sign of him, or Lavender. She let Harry guide her to a table and get them both some eggnog. Now she _knew_ there were eyes on her – it wasn't even that her costume was the raciest one there; a few others could give her a run for her money – but these people were her colleagues; some she might even classify as casual friends. They knew her well enough to realize what a radical departure this was from her usual modus operandi. The other women who were showing skin had shown skin before. Hermione, though – this was far and away the most of _her_ any of them had ever seen. Or would ever see again, she vowed. Desperate times called for desperate measures. This was a desperate measure and maybe it would work and maybe it wouldn't, but successful or not, it would _never_ be repeated. Never.

Eventually she relaxed enough to sit back in her chair – albeit with her arms crossed rather protectively over her chest – and let the conversations going on all around wash over her. Apparently the court of public opinion held that the eggnog was quite decent, the food passable, but the entertainment sub-par. She listened to a large woman, attired in a colorful muumuu and seated at the next table over, rattle on about how she'd heard that Lavender had invited Santa Claus himself to put in an appearance – "yes, of _course_ the real Santa Claus, what are you, a Muggle?" she'd exclaimed to a companion, then shot Harry a quick, nervous look; he'd come to the party dressed as a Muggle, his entire "costume" consisting of his favorite blue jeans, sweatshirt and tennis shoes. Hermione had cocked her head then, interest suddenly piqued; she'd never given much thought to the subject of Santa Claus in the wizarding world and was vaguely surprised, even after having been a part of wizarding society for so long, to hear that the "real" man in red himself actually put in occasional appearances at wizarding public functions.

"-you imagine how exciting that would have been?" the woman was now asking her tablemates; "he hasn't come to the Ministry in thirty years, at least! And I heard he'd actually accepted too… and then that Brown girl, the event coordinator, I have it on very good authority that she actually suggested his wardrobe could use a little updating! She started giving him fashion tips – Santa Claus – can you imagine the nerve of it?!? (Hermione could.) She actually went so far as to suggest that since this was to be a costume party and all, he might want to _shake things up a bit_; _try something new! _And he suddenly remembered that he had a very pressing engagement off in Narnia. Honestly! And now we're stuck with this backwater band…"

Hermione let her attention wander, scanning the room once again. Where was Ron? Harry was still eying her, apparently deep in thought. Abruptly, as a new song began, he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

"Dance?"

She stared up at him, flustered. There were couples swaying all around them, but it had never occurred to her that Harry – or anyone, for that matter – would invite her onto the dance floor to join them. Then she was getting to her own feet.

"Of course."

She didn't think the band was all that bad. In fact, the music washing over her made it very easy to relax into her oldest friend's embrace – and forget the fact that the fur-trimmed hem of her skirt just barely managed to cover her bum. Well, that and the eggnog. Hermione wasn't much of a drinker, and probably would have declined the eggnog had she realized that it was alcoholic. As it was, the half-serving she'd drunk was impacting her already; she was slightly tipsy. She leaned into Harry a little more fully. And then he spoke in her ear, his rumble of a voice barely audible.

"What are you trying to prove, Hermione?"

She stopped, her breath catching in her throat, pulling slightly back so that her eyes could fly up to meet his. He was still regarding her with that thoughtful, faintly puzzled expression.

"I just…" she stammered, "I, um…"

He leaned in so that their foreheads were actually touching. "You don't need this to be attractive, you know. You're beautiful. You've always been beautiful."

She swallowed hard, fighting back the sudden surge of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Merlin, they'd come from _nowhere_. "I must look a complete idiot. I do, don't I, Harry? Oh God, I want to go home." She tried to bury her face in his shoulder, but he wouldn't let her, abruptly gripping her by the arms and holding her a short distance away, forcing her to keep eye contact.

"You look absolutely ravishing. But this isn't you. Why are you doing this, Hermione?"

So. The time had come to reveal herself to Harry. She should have known better than to think for even a second that he'd let her get away with this, without questioning her closely. She took a deep breath and dropped her eyes. "I just… want… Ron… to notice me," she choked out at last – and suddenly felt very, very tired. Making that single admission, she felt as drained as if she'd just run a marathon. "And now he isn't even here," she blurted, unshed tears stinging once more at her eyes.

It took her a moment to realize how stiff and still Harry had gone. When she looked back up into his face she was surprised and dismayed to see how hard and closed-off it had become. She sought for his emotions – doing so had become second-nature to her by now in situations such as these – but was rebuffed. He was holding them tightly in check. She thought she felt, though, just barely, shimmering like heat haze around the edges of his defenses, the smallest tinge of bitterness and… something else that she couldn't quite place.

Merlin, her worst fears were being confirmed. She hadn't even gained Ron yet, and she was losing Harry. She was going to lose them both. Why was he reacting this way? Hadn't he been the one who'd hinted a week or more ago that Ron was "working through something" regarding her? Didn't that mean that Harry would be _glad_ to see them together? She _had_ to be an improvement over Lavender – right? So why was her oldest friend looking at her as if she'd just sucker-punched him in the gut, and hard? God, she loved him – loved them both – so much, and yet they were both such a mystery to her. She didn't understand what made these boys of hers tick, at all.

Harry was pulling himself together. Abruptly he let her go, leaning in just long enough to murmur, "Ron wouldn't know how lucky he was to have you. Let me go and try to find him for you, all right? Meet us back at the table."

And he was gone.

She stood there for a long time, feeling utterly bereft and not even really understanding why, watching him wend his way through the crowd.

Then the arm snaked around her from behind and she found herself pressed backward against a man who was most definitely _not_ the one she'd sought to attract tonight. Cold revulsion washed over her; she knew exactly who this was. "I must say, Granger, you look positively decent tonight," Draco Malfoy murmured in her ear, his hand rubbing lazy, entirely inappropriate circles on her stomach through the red satin fabric of her dress. "May I have this dance?"

She wrenched herself free, whirled around and slapped him all in a single, fluid motion. "No, Malfoy," she spat, "you most certainly may not," and turned to fairly bolt for the door.

All thoughts of waiting for Ron to put in an appearance had fled her mind; coming here dressed like this had been a huge mistake, _huge_ – and she most likely would have grabbed her cloak and apparated home on the spot had not Neville and Luna materialized from crowd, intercepting her with such a warm and heartfelt greeting that she forced herself to pause, unable to bring herself to snub them, for all her own personal upset. The Longbottoms had been married only two months; Harry and Ron had stood up for Neville; Hermione and Ginny for Luna. It had been a small but genuinely joyful affair and Luna, like most young newlyweds, was still basking in the afterglow of the event. As she prattled on, reminiscing about this and that detail of the day, Hermione was able to take several deep, steadying breaths, get a hold of her emotions somewhat, and even lead the couple back over to her now-empty table to continue the conversation as she resumed, however reluctantly, her wait for either Harry or Ron to reappear.

Absently, she drained the rest of her eggnog. She was not aware of Draco Malfoy's eyes burning into her from across the room, nor of the fact that while she'd been absorbed in conversation with the newlyweds several feet away, he'd paid a quick visit to her table himself, discreetly emptying the contents of a black onyx poison ring into her cup.

He smirked with satisfaction, despite the fact that his cheek was still smarting, and turned back to his own companions.

It wouldn't be long now.


	3. Chapter 3

(A/N: I'm sorry about the technical difficulties with this chapter. Was is just me, or was FFN acting kinda funky several days ago? I uploaded chapter 3 the night before I went away for a week to visit friends... and it must have uploaded because at least a couple of people saw it... but then - who knows? I'm not sure myself. And since I was away from home, I was unable to re-upload it since the document was, of course, saved to my home computer. But anyway, I'm home now, so here it is. Thanks for your patience:)

00000

The room was spinning; jumping in and out of focus in a strange and alarming manner. Hermione would never have credited that a single cup of eggnog, alcoholic or not, would have the ability to do… _this_ to her. She felt well past tipsy now – _miles_ past tipsy, in fact. Neville and Luna were still talking, but she no longer had any idea what they were saying. Their voices washed over her, breaking and receding like waves, pleasant but utterly incomprehensible. Then they got up, Luna leaning over with a smile to kiss her on the cheek, and made for the dance floor. She was alone again.

She shook her head, trying to clear it; that was a mistake. Dark starbursts bloomed suddenly before her eyes; she almost felt as though she were going to pass out. Water… Merlin, she wanted water… but there was none to be had. Only Harry's half-drunk cup of eggnog remained within arm's reach. She had to find water. She got to her feet – swayed dangerously – managed to catch herself on the edge of the table – and saw them.

Ron and Lavender, just entering – or more accurately, _re_entering – the room through a discreet door to the side of the stage. So _that's_ where they'd been all this time; backstage. They were both flushed – mussy haired – disheveled. It couldn't have been more obvious what they had been doing. God, she was a fool.

What had Ginny been thinking? What had _she_ been thinking? To dress like this – to come here – she must have been out of her ever-loving mind. She couldn't face him like this – no, no, no. She turned, again, to leave. And again she didn't get far. The moment she let go of the table, she fell sideways and back, straight onto her arse on the floor.

Across the room, Malfoy's smirk broadened.

"_Hermione!_"

Oh no – it was Ron – he had seen her. Would her mortification never end?

He was there in a flash, strong arms catching her around her middle and pulling her back to her feet, steadying her. She could read the worry coming off him in waves, and the stunned disbelief as he took in what she was wearing.

"Hermione – my God – what are you – where's Harry? And how much have you had to _drink?_"

_Only one glass, I swear, Ron, I SWEAR – _but she just couldn't seem, for the life of her, to make any words come. She managed, barely, to bring her eyes back into focus – that was the most she could do.

And then she saw the look on Lavender's face.

Her heart skipped a beat. Dear lord – if looks could _kill_. She blinked hard, wondering if she was imagining the naked, seething jealousy and rage on her former dorm-mate's face… but no, it was there, all right. How was Ron missing it?

Oh right, because a hundred and ten percent of Ron's attention was focused on _her_ at the moment. Which was, of course, the very reason that Lavender was Avada-ing her with her eyes in the first place.

"Ron, could you give Hermione and me a moment, please?" Lavender asked then, in a saccharine-encrusted voice completely at odds with the murderous expression on her face. "I'd like to have a word with her. Just, you know, girl talk."

"Um, sure," Ron said awkwardly, even as Hermione begged him with her eyes to stay. She even tried to send this frantic desire to him over their private emotional frequency, but he remained completely unresponsive. Was he ignoring her on purpose? she wondered miserably. Or was it that the alcohol she'd imbibed was compromising her ability to project? She'd never really stopped to think about that before. Could alcohol _do_ that? Could _anything?_

"I'll, er, just grab us some drinks," Ron said to Lavender, pausing to add to Hermione as an afterthought, "not you, though. I think you've had enough." Then he was gone.

Glancing over her shoulder at the retreating figure of her boyfriend, Lavender positioned herself carefully so that, should Ron just happen to turn around, all he would see was her back as she leaned close to Hermione in what, from across the room, might have been mistaken for a friendly and conspiratorial manner.

There was, however, _nothing_ friendly about it.

"I know exactly what you're trying to pull, Granger, you dirty bitch," she virtually snarled. "Dressing up like some little tart, coming across all drunk, and _helpless_, and _vulnerable_. Pathetic. I'll have you know that it's not going to work. I know you've been after Ron for ages – but you haven't got him yet and you're not going to get him tonight. Ron is mine, and I fully intend to keep it that way. So for God's sake, go home and put some clothes on. You're an embarrassment, honestly. Go read a book or something, and stay the _hell_ away from my man. Do you bloody well understand – oh hey, love, that was fast."

Ron had, indeed, returned with the drinks rather quickly. Hermione could still read the concern coming off of him, but it was getting fainter now. Or rather, she didn't think it was the actual emotion that was fading, but her ability to pick up on it.

"Hermione? Are you all right? What the _hell_ is going on here?" Depositing the drinks on the table he reached out and cupped her cheek. It took her a moment to understand that he was brushing something away. Oh, God. Brushing tears away. She was crying, now, in earnest, and she hadn't even realized it.

It took an almost Herculean effort just to get her voice to work. "I… I'm sorry… Ron," she stammered, "I just… need… I um… have to… restroom."

She turned and fled, but not before she heard his voice, that low, dangerous tone it took on when he was getting ready to be really, _really_ angry about something, demanding, "What the hell did you say to her, Lavender? Tell me. _Now_."

She was barely aware of getting through the room; all of her concentration, all of her effort, was being funneled into the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. The room was spinning faster now, and she was half-blinded by tears, and so humiliated that she could feel an actual, physical wave of nausea rising within her. She had to stop and steady herself against the wall at one point – half-falling, sideways, into it. The crowded room had become a funhouse, that was anything but fun. She needed to get to the ladies' room, and then she needed to get home. This was shaping into far and away the worst night of her life.

Little did she guess that it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Malfoy followed her stealthily out of the room.

00000

She was bent far over the sink, splashing cold water repeatedly onto her face, when he came up behind her. He'd already paused in the corridor, glancing furtively in both directions to make sure he wasn't seen, to magick an "Out of Order" sign onto the door and soundproof the room within. Now he was ready to claim the prize that he'd been eying for weeks. Inferior creature she might be – but _damn_, she looked fuckable. And he meant to have her.

Everything within her had slowed down – even the cold water was doing little to revive her. Her arms and legs were going completely to jelly; she felt as if the sink were the only thing holding her up. So she was unable to react in any meaningful way when he seized her from behind, yanking her away from the sink and thrusting her, hard, up against the bathroom's dirty-pink tiled wall.

"Well, mudblood," Draco sneered, "I've been watching you and thinking about this for a long time. I must admit, you and your personal protection squad haven't made it easy for me… until tonight. Tonight you've been… most accommodating. I do appreciate that, Granger."

Her mind was screaming, but her body was numb. She couldn't seem to summon the strength to resist him. She wanted to yell bloody murder, to curse and hex, to punch and scratch and bite and kick, but she found that by now she could barely raise her arms at all, and the most she could come up, by way of protest, was a whispered, "Malfoy… _no!_"

He grinned. "How did you like the eggnog, Hermione? I thought it rather bland, myself. But I added a special little… _something_ to yours, after you so demurely declined my invitation to dance. Gave it rather a little kick, wouldn't you say? You should be thanking me for it. It means we won't even have to use restraints. Won't that be nicer?" He lowered his mouth to her throat, licking and sucking as he continued, "you don't seem the type that would go in for bondage, after all. I was only thinking of you."

"No," she groaned, pressing her eyes shut as if by this simple negation she could make this all just disappear. The tears were coming thicker now, streaming silently down her cheeks. "Oh, no." So _that_ was why Ron hadn't picked up on what she'd been trying to convey to him, earlier at the table. Malfoy had given her something intended to sap her physical strength, compromise her coordination, and leave her unable to resist his advances – and it had destroyed her ability to project, as well. Oh, God help her. Oh God, _please_…

"Hush, mudblood," he murmured, moving his mouth up to her jawline now, making her shiver with disgust. "Don't act as if you didn't want this. _Look_ at you, for Merlin's sake. You _came_ here for this. Maybe I wasn't precisely who you had in mind –" she felt his lips curve up in a trademark smirk against her flushed, tear-dampened skin – "but don't you worry, I know what to do with it. You may as well relax and enjoy the ride – no point in working yourself up over something you won't remember anyway. I'll Obliviate you when we're through, no worries."

She gulped in a sob as she felt one of his hands slide down her body to the hem of her skirt, then back up her leg, to her hip, underneath it. She tried desperately to rally enough concentration – enough mental strength – to project out to Harry and Ron, but she couldn't do it. The one time she frantically needed to use her gift, and it was gone, gone.

He drove a knee between her legs. She felt his fingers slip inside her knickers. She wanted to die from shame.

And then, in a heartbeat, everything changed.

It happened when he drove his tongue, with arrogant possessiveness, deep into her mouth, mistakenly assuming that she was so far gone, her spirit so completely broken, that he could now do as he liked with perfect impunity.

He was wrong.

She _was_ weak, and dizzy, and disoriented, and almost – _almost_ – completely helpless. But there was enough of Hermione Jane Granger left beneath to understand that a golden opportunity had just been given her – and to seize on it. With all the strength she had left, she bit down.

His reaction was, predictably, both swift and violent.

"You… fucking… mudblood… _bitch!_" he managed, wrenching away from her. "You want to do this the hard way, Granger? _Do_ you!?" And he backhanded her right across the face.

Pain exploded through her. And, just as she had seized on the opportunity he'd given her a second ago, she seized on this too. It was just what she needed – the magnitude of it, the sheer volume – to break through her drug-induced haze and project, project, _project_.

It was her one and only chance; she was perfectly conscious of this. She didn't think she'd be able to rally the necessary strength, or focus the necessary will, to do it again. So she sent everything she had in that instant – positively _blasted_ them with it, both of them. Her pain, her fear, her horror and utter, abject humiliation. She tried to give a sense of certain words – _drugged; rape; hurts; help me, God, help me, please – _and of her location.

It was over almost before it had begun – but she'd accomplished her goal. The message had been sent – and received. The answering blasts of emotion – emotion too strong, too _raw_, to put into words – could have knocked her off her feet, had Malfoy not been holding her pinned to the wall, his arm, now, pressed hard across her throat, closing off her airway.

Oh, they had heard, all right. And they were coming.

Fast.

So now she could concentrate on simply trying to breathe.

Which wasn't so easy, actually, under the circumstances.

She managed to drag up her hands and clutch at his arm, but lacked the ability to pull it away. With his other hand he yanked her dress down her shoulders, one first and then the other, so that the fabric now effectively pinned her arms to her sides.

She scrunched her eyes shut, bursts of light now blooming on the insides of her lids from lack of air, as his mouth found the newly exposed skin of one shoulder – and bit down viciously. She gave a strangled cry, her eyes flying open again in shock.

And then the door burst open, flung very nearly off its hinges.

00000

The next several seconds were a whirlwind – and the violence was incredible. By the end of it Malfoy was huddled on the floor, rolled into a tight, fetal ball in a futile effort to protect himself from the maelstrom of blows raining down on him from above.

And she was safe. Safe. Her boys were here. That was all that mattered; everything else that had happened between the three of them on this strange, eventful, and absolutely horrific night was utterly washed away. Her boys were here and she was safe and she could let herself go.

She dragged in a harsh, painful breath, then another, sagging back against the cold, tiled wall, her eyes falling shut once more, her head swimming. This close to Harry and Ron, she could "feel" them again – she could hardly help it, in point of fact – the intensity of the burning, seething, roiling rage that was coming off them both, shot through with incredibly powerful flashes of protectiveness, possessiveness, and love, was sending her reeling- both physically and mentally.

Or maybe that was the drug.

Whatever it was, it was completely overwhelming her. She'd been through too much tonight – just – too damn much by half. Her legs began to buckle, sending her sliding, ever so slowly, floorward.

She felt the bursts of fear from them before she registered anything else- Ron's hands grabbing her under her arms, for example; holding her up. She could hear his voice, but only very distantly.

"Hermione? _Hermione!_ Don't do this – _no!_ Shit… wake up, wake _up_. Hermione, look at me. Harry – what did he give her? Fuck – _fuck!_ I knew there was something wrong with her, I _knew_ it and I did nothing! Goddamn it! What the fuck did he do?? Oh Christ, Hermione, please!"

She almost smiled, despite herself, at the worry in his voice; at the naked, panicked love that was radiating helplessly off of him. She'd waited so long… _so long_… for this confirmation. A thought occurred to her then; this reminded her of something… something that had happened… a long time ago. It took her a moment to put her finger on it, but then she did smile, in earnest.

"Ron," she whispered, in a croaky little voice that was entirely alien to her; she barely recognized it. "This is… this… is…"

"Hermione, put your arms around me. Come on, sweetheart, please." She couldn't ignore the urgency, the pleading, in his voice. She dragged up one arm, then the other. Her head crashed forward, into his chest.

He was so tall, Ron. She had a tendency to forget just how tall he _was_, until a situation such as this came along to remind her. She sucked in a ragged little breath, her face pressed into the fabric of his shirt. She could smell him- smell both of them. Comforting scents- scents she had known- had _loved_- for so long. Which of them had that spicy-aftershave-scent, and which always smelled faintly of leather, and the outdoors? She couldn't remember just at the moment. It was all becoming jumbled in her mind. Harry and Ron… Ron and Harry… she loved them both… _needed_ them both… so much. She always had… and she always would. She rallied her last reserves of strength, and tried again.

"This is… wait… Ron. Harry? Listen. This is the second time… you've saved me… in a bathroom." She felt the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth again… and then her entire body went limp, boneless, sagging against Ron's chest, his strong arms.

"Hermione! Oh bloody hell, bloody bloody _hell_…" He was easing her down to the floor, now, apparently realizing that no matter how hard he willed it, her legs were simply not going to support her anymore. Harry was there too, then, catching her head as it fell backwards, cushioning it from the hard, grimy tile. She blinked up at them both; green eyes and darkest blue; black hair and red; and fear, and love, radiating off of both of them in waves, totally eclipsing their rage of a moment ago; eclipsing _everything_.

_I love you too_, she tried to whisper, but she couldn't make the words come; not out loud. She tried to project her love outward to them, but found, to her dismay, that she couldn't do that either. She simply lacked the strength.

"Harry," Ron was saying now, and his voice had taken on an echo-y, surreal quality, but she could still tell that it was tinged with genuine panic, "I can't feel her, can you? I can't feel her at all! This is… Jesus… Harry, what do we _do?_"

She could feel Harry – she _knew_ it was Harry, though she wasn't sure how she knew, her vision having slipped entirely out of focus now – stroking the hair back from her forehead. She turned her face ever so slightly toward his hand, wanting nothing more at that moment than to nestle into that gentle touch.

The two of them were talking now, rapid-fire, above her. As earlier with Neville and Luna, their voices broke and receded, broke and receded. She thought she understood when a conclusion had been reached – St. Mungo's, of course, but they had to carry her out to the Apparition Point first. One just couldn't apparate as one pleased within the Ministry of Magic, after all.

Then Harry bent close to her; so close that his lips were almost grazing her own as he spoke directly to her, now, in a low, urgent tone.

"Hermione? I know you can hear me, even if you can't speak right now, so just listen, all right? We're getting you out of here, but you need to stay awake. We don't know what Malfoy gave you, or what it will… if you go to sleep… what might –" He couldn't seem to bring himself to finish this thought. There was a bright new burst of panic from Ron. Harry was frantic as well, but it was more controlled – sort of a constant simmer in the background. It was his Auror training, she knew, that had taught him to think more or less levelly through situations such as these. "Just stay awake, sweetheart, okay?" he whispered then – his voice, and his calm façade, starting to crack. "Please, Hermione. I can't – I don't know what I'd – just _stay awake_."

She was gathered up then – lifted effortlessly – it was still Harry who had her; she knew the way his body felt, knew his arms around her. With a supreme effort, she linked her own arms loosely round his neck.

From the floor came a muffled "ummff!" – Ron had given Malfoy a last, parting kick to the ribs for good measure. She heard the redhead's voice, contorted by hatred, barking out first "_Incarcerous!_" and then, after a moment's pause for thought, it seemed, following up with "_Stupefy!_" Tightly bound and rendered unconscious, Malfoy wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Then Harry had her through the bathroom door, and the whole world faded to grey.


	4. Chapter 4

(A/N: This is the final chapter of Alex's little Christmas tale! This is also where the adult content comes into play, so consider yourself warned. Also, I'm going to repeat what I wrote in my author's note at the very beginning of the story, because judging by some of the reviews I've gotten there has been some confusion as to the "pairing" of this fic. As I stated explicitly at the very beginning of chapter one, this is a _threesome fic_. Hermione ends up with Harry _and_ Ron. Let me repeat that once more for the record: _Harry AND Ron_. I feel the need to make this crystal clear, because it is unconventional to say the least and will probably squick some people out. If you don't want to read about M-rated Golden Trio three-way smut, then _please_ hit the back button now. If you read it and then flame me about it I will conclude that you are one of those people who can never be bothered to read author's notes, which will cause me to roll my eyes and mutter "_moron_" under my breath. Okay, now that that's out of the way, please enjoy the conclusion of the fic :-)

00000

She was jolted back to something resembling awareness, still clasped to Harry's chest, by the sound of screaming. Shrill, feminine, utterly infuriated screaming.

Lavender's screaming.

They were in the foyer just outside the event room where the party was still in full swing, and Lavender had blocked their path to the exit, and the Apparition Point. She was laying into Ron something fierce, too, punctuating her outraged shrieks with frequent hard shoves to his chest.

" – can't _possibly_ mean to tell me that you're going in for this complete and utter bollocks, Ron, _can_ you?!? How stupid _are_ you?? I can't _believe_ you're falling for this! She's doing it all for attention, it's all a bloody act, she _admitted_ it to me while you were getting the drinks!" (_You liar_, Hermione thought fuzzily, _you dirty little liar!_) "She's been trying to get you away from me for years, and I won't have it, Ronald Weasley, do you hear me?!? Pretending to be drunk, indeed, just so she can get you to take _care_ of her, and you're actually buying it! Well, let _Harry_ take the little bint home, then. You _came_ here with me and you are not bloody well leaving here _without_ me!"

A crowd was gathering now; people drawn by Lavender's wild shouts.

"Lavender." Ron's voice was quiet, but hard as steel. It cut through her tirade like a knife. "Get. Out. Of my way. _Now_."

"_I – said – NO!_"

Calmly and silently, Ron stepped around her.

And then Lavender _really_ hit the roof.

This time her target was Hermione.

"That little bitch is faking it, I know it! Look, I'll _prove_ it to you –" She made a lunge toward Harry, but Ron was there instantly, barring her way.

"Don't you touch her, Lavender. Don't you dare. She's been through enough. Harry – take her and go. Get her some help. I'll deal with this."

"You will not take her part against me!" Lavender shrieked. "And you will not leave me for that bucktoothed little twat, Ron, _you will not!_" Hermione heard her hand impact with Ron's cheek, hard.

Oh, no. Oh, no bloody _way_. Rallying her own strength as best she could, she tried to wrench herself out of Harry's arms; Lavender had gone too far this time. Slapping Ron – _her_ Ron – this would not stand.

Harry was taken so much by surprise that he nearly dropped her; he went down to one knee with her, in an effort to steady them both. Moving so suddenly had been a mistake, she soon realized; a new and powerful wave of nausea, vertigo and illness swept violently over her.

"Oh, God… Harry…" she choked out sickly, "ugh… I don't…"

Ron was talking, his voice, echoing down now, from above her. " – sake, Lavender, as if you wouldn't just have left _me_ next week. I'm sick of it, all right? I've put up with your nonsense for a long time because, might as well come out with it, you're an absolutely _fantastic_ shag. But I'm done. I don't care for you and you sure as _hell_ don't give a damn about me, not really. And in the end, Hermione is… well, Hermione is my life. I knew that once. I don't know when I forgot. But I've remembered it now and I'm not going to forget again. Ever. So sod. The hell. Off."

Hermione, woozy as she was, wanted to cheer; to jump up and throw her arms around him and kiss him.

What she did instead was throw up. Spectacularly.

Distantly, she felt Harry's worry crescendo; heard him shouting in a voice cracked with panic, "Are there any Healers here!? For God's sake, will someone check – see if Neville's still here! We need help! NOW!"

His hands, those large, warm, strong hands that she loved so well, that she trusted with her life, were steadying and soothing her as best they could. Ron was there too, a heartbeat later, Lavender having stormed off in a fit of tears and rage. And then she heard Neville shoving his way through the crowd, shouting, with an authority undreamed of in his Hogwarts years, that he was a Healer; goddamn it, let him through.

Really, though, in the midst of all this chaos, she was actually starting to feel a little better. Her body had, after all, just managed to rid itself of whatever toxin that bastard Malfoy had subjected it to – and quite effectively at that, thank you very much.

She was only sorry that she was about to worry her boys even more than they already were. She could feel the unconsciousness tugging at her with increasing strength and insistence every second. She wasn't afraid of it for herself; in fact she knew, on a very deep level and with absolute certainty, that it was exactly what her body needed at the moment – the opportunity to rest from its ordeal; to heal itself. Yet she fought it tooth and nail, because Harry had begged her to stay awake with such naked fear in his voice and his mind.

They would be beside themselves when she succumbed; that was why she held out for as long as could – as long as she did. When she understood that she could fight it no longer, she made a last, mighty effort to rally herself, if only for a moment. Forcing her eyes back into focus, she found that she'd been eased onto her back on the floor, Harry and Ron and now Neville bent close over her. Ron and Harry were paper-white; stunned-looking.

God, she was so weak. Not in any pain or even distress, not anymore, but there was barely an ounce of strength left in her. Nonetheless, she managed to raise a shaking hand to cup first Ron's cheek, and then, a second later, Harry's. Harry covered her hand with his own, holding it to him. It was to Harry that she spoke.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible, trying for all she was worth to convey this sentiment to him – to both of them – through their link as well. She had no idea whether she was succeeding or not. She wasn't going to waste her strength attempting to check. Her eyes were already dragging themselves stubbornly, inexorably closed. "Harry, I tried. I'm suh… suh…"

And that was all she could do. The last thing she registered was Harry's voice shouting, "Hermione, don't! _Don't!_"

But she was falling into darkness.

She knew no more.

00000

Returning to consciousness was a slow thing, like swimming up through murky waters toward a distant light above. She was in her own bed – she realized that before she even opened her eyes. She knew the feel of it; the decadent softness of the featherbed that topped her mattress; the flannel sheets (periwinkle blue with a white snowflake print in honor of the season) against her skin, the cloudlike warmth of her fluffy down comforter. What was unfamiliar was the solid warmth pressing in on her from both sides. She couldn't quite figure out what that was. It was wonderful, though, whatever it was. She felt so warm, so protected, so… safe.

She stretched a little, gave a muffled "uhhmmm" of a yawn, and forced open one reluctant eyelid, and then the other. Her nightlight was lit, and the first faint streaks of grey dawn were illuminating, ever so faintly, the sheer curtains at her windows. Odd… she didn't even remember getting herself home last night, much less turning on her nightlight and climbing into bed. And what _were_ these warm weights on either side of her, pinning her snug in the center of the bed?

Then it all came crashing back, powerfully enough to make tears start in her eyes.

Oh, Merlin. Oh, shit. Oh, damn.

Her absolute horror was mitigated by the realization, which came at exactly the same time, that it was Ron and Harry, asleep on either side of her, that were giving her that sense of warmth and security. Ron's arm was flung over her stomach – _take that, Lavender Brown_, she couldn't help but think.

But Merlin – what were they _doing?_

She'd made such a bloody, complete and utter fool of herself – she didn't even deserve this sort of attention. She didn't deserve _them_ – either of them.

And yet, here they were. She wished suddenly, fervently, that this moment could last for the rest of her life. Forever, and beyond.

Then Harry stirred, opened those amazing, jade-colored eyes of his. Locked gazes with her – smiled. His relief – and more – his… _love?_... washed over her. He reached right past her to give Ron a light shake.

"Ron – hey, mate – she's awake."

"Mmh." Ron's arm on her middle tightened for a moment, with unmistakable possessiveness. Then his eyes, too, opened – that deep, cobalt blue; almost black. Like Harry, he sought her eyes; smiled sleepily.

"Thank God," he said, his voice little more than a sleep-husky croak. "Hermione, thank God." He reached up to smooth a stray curl from her forehead. "Don't you _ever_ do that again. You don't – you can't know…"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. It was the thought she'd been unable to finish putting into words before passing out the night before. "Merlin, I was so… so stupid…"

"Don't." It was Harry this time. "Don't say that, love." She angled her head back toward him; shifted the smallest bit so that she could reach out, brush his hair back as Ron had done for her. "Don't even think it. You're… shit, Hermione, you're bloody… perfect." He nearly choked on the last word and what she did next was done purely on impulse, without an ounce of forethought or rationalization. She tangled her hand – the one that was already resting against his temple – gently in his hair, pulled him to her, and kissed him full on the lips.

For a moment he was too surprised to react at all… but when he did, it was with characteristic, incredible intensity. Both of his arms were around her suddenly, so quickly and completely that she had no real consciousness of his having moved at all, and he was holding her to him so hard, it was almost as if he were trying to meld her body to his own. He kissed her back deeply, with what seemed to be – with what _was_, she realized dimly, and with some incredulity, even now – years of pent-up passion.

And all his love, and all his longing – they crashed over her in a tidal wave that left her shaking in its aftermath, putty in his hands. The kiss must have lasted for a full minute at least, and when it ended, when they were forced to come up for air, he wound a hand through her curls and held her head against his shoulder, his other arm wrapped around her waist so hard that she could barely regain her breath.

She might have let him hold her like that forever, too, had not she felt the bed on the other side of her shift then – Ron was getting to his feet. And losing his warm, solid presence on the other side of her – it felt like having half of her heart ripped away.

"Ron – wait," she managed, disengaging from Harry and sitting up in the middle of the bed, the mounds of covers pooling around her waist. (She was wearing, she realized, a very old, and very soft, Gryffindor Quidditch jersey – one of them must have grabbed it for her when they'd got in last night. But who had put her _in_ it??) Ron stopped halfway to the door, but didn't turn back. His head was bowed, his fists clenched, his entire posture a study in suppressed anguish. His voice, when he spoke, was ragged.

"Hermione… don't make me watch that. I can't. Not now." He raised one hand and unclenched it long enough to rake his fingers through his copper-colored hair in an abrupt, distracted, completely miserable gesture. "I just… I almost thought that… you have to give me a little time, all right? I can't… deal with this right now. I just can't."

"No," she choked out, frantic, suddenly, that he didn't walk out; that she didn't lose him. It was all becoming clear now, crystal clear at last – it wasn't Harry that she wanted… _nor_ was it Ron. She didn't want either one of them – not alone. She wanted them both. And she always had, she realized then, in a flash of perfect, pure understanding. Merlin help her, she always had.

"No Ron, don't go. _Please_ don't go. I couldn't bear it, I don't… I don't know how to…" How could she put what she felt into words? She couldn't, she realized. She couldn't make them understand what she felt, wanted, _needed_ – not verbally. Words were puny, insignificant in the face of emotions this powerful. And so she projected it instead.

Ron turned slowly, shock and uncertainty and hope battling on his face. "Merlin, Hermione," he said hoarsely, "are you _serious?_"

"Yes," she choked out. "I can't… be whole… be _me_… without you. Both of you. Oh, God. What must you think of me for that? I'm so sorry. But I can't fight it anymore. Please, _please_ don't hate me for this. I couldn't stand it."

He stood there a moment longer, then crossed back over to her, movingly slowly, dazedly, almost like a sleepwalker. She realized dimly that Harry had a sat up beside her, keeping his arm wrapped snugly about her waist; a simple, non-verbal show of support, she realized distantly; support and unconditional love. Harry was with her. Harry understood. But did Ron?

He sank down, sideways, on the edge of the bed, his cobalt eyes fixed on her dark ones for a long, long time. Then, just as he had at the party, he reached out and caressed her cheek, wiping away tears that she hadn't known were there. "Shit, Hermione, don't do that," he said. "It kills me when you cry. It kills me. I love… love you… so bloody much… I…"

"Shh," she whispered. "It's okay, Ron. It's okay, love. Shhhh."

His hand slid from her tear-stained cheek, pushing back through her sleep-tousled hair, coming to rest against the back of her head, fingers splayed through her thick, dark curls. And then, just as she had done to Harry a moment ago, he pulled her in for a kiss.

It was every bit as heady and intense and mind-blowing as her kiss with Harry had been. Her arms came up of their own volition, winding around him, pulling him closer, closer; deeper into the kiss.

And then they were falling together, back against the pillows. Without pausing to break the kiss with Ron or even bothering to open her eyes, Hermione reached up, found Harry unerringly, settled her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down too. He stretched out beside her, opposite Ron. This time it was _his_ hand that settled on her stomach, but not for long; he slid it across to her hip, then slowly up the side of her body, following her curves, bunching the soft red-and-gold fabric of the shirt as he went, pushing it gradually, tantalizingly up.

She tore her lips away from Ron's to groan out a shuddery "ohhh," as Harry's hand grazed, just barely, the side of her breast… then dragged across it to the other one, brushing lightly against her nipples, underneath the shirt. She gasped and arched, hand clenching in Ron's hair – no one had ever touched her like this before. It wasn't that she was a virgin – she was not – but the loss of her virginity was something she would rather have forgotten. It had happened years ago, with Viktor Krum, when she'd accepted his invitation to holiday for a week in Romania. Her first experience, the one she'd been meant to cherish for a lifetime, had been awkward, silent, and abortively quick; it had all been over before she'd had time to do much more than gasp and stiffen with the pain of his intrusion – leaving her sore and sticky and weeping bitterly with acute disappointment… and a sudden, gut-wrenching sense of guilt. She hadn't even been able to put her finger, at the time, on exactly what it was she'd felt so guilty _about_, but now, at last, she understood perfectly. It was because she was Ron and Harry's girl. She always had been. Always.

Krum had been, not surprisingly, somewhat disgruntled by her reaction – he'd left the room, and a few hours later she'd left the country. They hadn't seen each other again. And she had never been intimate with another man since. It had never seemed right. And now she knew why.

God, if Malfoy had had his way it would have torn her to pieces; destroyed her. But he hadn't. Thank Merlin, he hadn't. Thank Merlin – and Ron and Harry too. They'd been there for her. They were _always_ there for her… as long as she allowed them to be. And she loved them for it; she loved them so damn much it hurt.

Harry moved his hand up to her face now, catching it and turning her toward him. "Hermione, are you sure…?"

"More sure than I've been… in a long time," she replied, between breaths that were rapidly piling up. An instant later, though, her brow furrowed. "But you guys… are you… you're both… all right with this?"

They didn't answer her – not in words, at any rate. Nevertheless, it was quite clear where they both stood on the matter. Harry leaned down, then, dropping a kiss on her forehead; the tip of her nose; and then claiming her lips once more. He gave her cheek a final caress, then let his hand skim down her throat, over her collarbone, her breast, her ribs, the indent of her navel, to rest once again on her hip, where it had started. Slowly, with a gentleness that was almost reverence, he dragged it from there to the apex of her thighs, nudged them just slightly apart, and began rubbing her in tiny, hot circles through her knickers. She arched up with a ragged little cry of surprised pleasure – she'd heard things, of course, and read things, but her personal experience had given her no idea of the absolute wonders of foreplay. God, this was… oh… _oh_… it was almost too intense; too good to be borne. She tried to close her legs again, but Harry was having none of it. He hooked his own leg over the nearer of hers, parting them decisively – but not until after he'd peeled off her knickers entirely, resuming what he'd been doing, directly on her skin this time.

Ron, meanwhile, had found the little hollow at the base of her throat, right where it joined with her shoulder, and was sucking gently at the tender skin there. As her breaths piled up with Harry's ministrations, he added fuel to the fire by rucking up the jersey she was still – sort of – wearing the final few inches required to expose her breasts, and cupping first, one, then the other, in a large, warm, slightly calloused hand, plucking and teasing her nipples without mercy. She was nearly sobbing from sensation as he dragged his mouth slowly up her throat to her jaw, then her lips, then her ear, whispering hoarsely, "God, Hermione, you're so… _so_ beautiful, you don't know – you _can't_ know – how much I've wanted this…"

Then she tried to bolt right off the bed with the realization that Harry had slid further down her body and was now grasping both of her thighs and pressing them apart as he… as he… Merlin… he wasn't… going to kiss her _there_…? Surely not. And yet… and yet…

"Oh Harry, no," she gasped frantically, blushing absolutely scarlet – he _couldn't_ do that, it was absolutely _wanton_, how could she allow it? – "no, you… oh Harry, please… nuh…uhh…_ohhhhhhhhh_…" Her protests died away – seconds later she had a hand fisted in Harry's dark hair, holding him hard against her, rocking her hips in shameless rhythm. She'd never known anything could feel this good… Merlin help her, she hadn't _known_.

Ron was watching her closely through this, his cobalt eyes, dark with lust, riveted on her face. "Holy fuck, you're amazing," he breathed, as she tossed her head restlessly, almost crying from the intensity of the things Harry was doing to her. He caught her face in both his hands, caressing her cheek, dropping a kiss on her temple. He rubbed his thumb over the curve of her lips and, hardly aware of what she was doing, she sucked it into her mouth. He hissed in a harsh, almost pained breath, shuddering down the entire length of his body.

She could feel something building now, something ten times more powerful than that puny, guilt-ridden orgasm she'd brought herself to all that time ago – a lifetime ago, it seemed, when Ron had been with Lavender in the room next door.

It was mounting deep in the core of her, and sweet Merlin, sweet God, it was going to blow her away, because she wasn't fighting it or second-guessing it any longer… she was exactly where she belonged, with exactly the people she belonged with. Belonged _to_. Her soulmates, both of them. This was right. It was right, it was right, it was… oh, God, so _good_…

"Oh Harry," she almost sobbed, "oh please don't stop… I… I'm gonna…"

And then he pulled away.

"_Nooo_," she nearly wailed, her eyes, which had drifted shut a moment ago, flying open to lock, pleadingly, on his.

Harry only grinned at her. "You didn't think you were getting off that easy, did you?" he asked, as he stretched languidly out beside her once more, plunging a hand into her thick, dark hair, which was fanned out on the pillow; pausing to drop a kiss on her nearer shoulder.

And then he stopped short, arrested by something he'd just noticed. With his fingertips he traced a spot on her shoulder that made her do a hitching little double-gasp of surprised pain – it was, she saw, glancing down, an angry, discolored little spot; bruised and slightly puffy. It was where Malfoy had bitten down.

She felt the surge of his white-hot fury before he even spoke. "That bastard," he choked out, "I should have bloody well _killed_ him – cowardly… little… _fuck_ –"

"It's all right, Harry," she whispered, actually smiling a little at the intensity, the depth of his protectiveness and outrage and love. "It's okay. _I'm_ okay. I'm right here and… and actually, Malfoy really helped us all to reach this place, didn't he? We should send him a thank-you note… in Azkaban."

Harry actually laughed a little. "God, I love you," he murmured then. "I have for so long."

"C'mere, love," she breathed, and pulled him into a deep, hot kiss. She was so wrapped up in it that she barely registered Ron kneeling up; taking position between her legs; pulling her hips up until they rested on his thighs, angling her body upward – ideal for penetration. She didn't realize what was happening until she felt him align himself with her.

"Oh," she gasped, fingers tightening suddenly, spasmodically, on Harry's arms. "Oh, God… Ron… Harry…"

"Look at me," he said, green eyes boring into hers. "Look at me, sweetheart, I want to see this."

Staring up at him, she swallowed hard and gripped him harder; she was more aroused than she'd ever been in her life, but a little bit nervous nevertheless – her first and only prior experience had been anything but pleasant. But this was Ron and Harry… _her_ Ron; _her_ Harry. They knew her better than she knew herself; they would make it good for her.

This would be better, of course it would. Worlds better. It had to be. It _had_ to be.

And then Ron was inside of her and her whole body was arching up toward the ceiling and all thought fled as the world exploded in light.

00000

"How did we get back here anyway?" she asked sleepily, stretching languorously and loving, loving, _loving_ the way _both_ of them tightened their arms around her at once – Harry from her left side, Ron from her right. Faint dawn light had turned to early morning brilliance, and then to late morning warmth, and now, finally, to the subdued tones of the afternoon, approaching evening… and through it all, they had not left this room, this bed.

Merlin, she'd come half a dozen times if she'd come at all. It was as if a dam had burst within all three of them – years of pent-up longing and passion, all surfacing at once.

It had been… intense.

It was Harry who answered her question, in a gravelly voice as drowsy as her own. "We brought you straight home – Neville said you were out of danger, since you'd managed to… um, _expel_… just about the entire dose of whatever that filthy bastard Malfoy gave you."

Ron, on the other side of her, grinned – she could feel him do it, since his face was pressed into her shoulder.

'That was bloody brilliant," he interjected, his lips moving against her skin as he spoke. "You got Lavender's shoes full-on – the hem of her gown, too. And that was a hundred galleon gown. I should know; she made me buy it."

"Oh," Hermione couldn't help snorting in a mixture of surprise, amusement and disgust, "God, yuck!"

"Yeah, that's about what _she_ said," Harry put in. "Well… hers was a bit spicier."

Hermione was silent for a heartbeat, absorbing this – and then she laughed. Laughed outright, and _hard_, in a way that she hadn't for a long time. Maybe not since school.

It felt unbelievably good. All the tension that she could see now, in retrospect, had been mounting between the three of them for a long time, had melted away. Things could return to being as easy and natural as they had ever been – with the single, notable addition of absolutely mind-blowing sex.

It was just – about – perfect.

Only one thing still troubled her.

"What are we going to say to people? How will we explain this? They'll never understand."

"The ones who matter will," Harry said quietly. "The ones who matter will understand because they love us and want to see what's best for us. And this is – obviously – how we were always meant to be. I can't believe we fought it for so long."

"And as for the ones that don't matter," Ron added sleepily, "bugger 'em – they don't _matter!_"

Then she was laughing again.

"God, I love your laugh," Harry murmured; "I've missed it lately." He drew one hand lazily up her body – giving her a bad case of goose-bumps and causing her to suck in a deep, shaky breath, a tingly new wave of desire suddenly overtaking her – and cupped her chin, turning her face toward his. She smiled as he traced her lips with his thumb.

"I've missed it too," she replied truthfully. "And yet –" she tangled a hand in his hair, pulling him down until they were almost – but not quite – kissing – "I can think – " her other hand found the back of Ron's head as he, apparently thinking along the exact same lines as she was, kissed his way slowly from her shoulder to her breast and pulled her quickly hardening nipple into his mouth, wrenching a little moan of pleasure from her – "of one or two – " Harry's hand was trailing down her body now, finding that most intimate of all places; she was so sensitive there already, after the marathon lovemaking of the last few hours, that she jerked nearly a foot off the bed – "other things I'd rather be doing –" and now her lips were actually moving against his, and _God_, it was sensual, and oh so perfectly right – "with my mouth."

She felt Harry's lips curve into a smile, just before they claimed her own; her mouth parting to receive him.

Outside her window, the sun was setting. It was going to be a good night.


End file.
